The Carillon remembers

Four and a half long years
by Julie Folk
the Carillon

The journey home so far has been bittersweet. While I anticipate seeing family and friends and setting foot on Canadian soil once more, so much has changed since I last saw this land.

Through the days of battle, followed by four and half long years in a Japanese prisoner-of-war camp, I have seen death, sickness and sorrow; felt despair, agony and loss.

God has brought me through my experiences, by curing my illness, keeping me alive and pushing me to keep hope.

I’ll never forget the Christmas of 1941–my first day as a POW. It was the day after I had first witnessed death while trying to defend Hong Kong from the Japanese forces. Suddenly, for the first time since the beginning of WWII, I realized the gravity of the situation we were in. On that day, we stood no chance against the army we faced.

Seeing the soldier next to me fall with a bullet in his forehead changed my whole outlook on the war. At the time I said to myself, “I guess we’re in this for keeps.” And we were. That man’s death upset me more than anything else had up to that point. But you get used to it … you have to.

That was just the beginning. Luckily, I survived the battle, though I didn’t realize what was in store for me in the coming years.

Falling ill with diphtheria early on, imprisonment worsened the already dismal conditions I found myself in. I don’t know how many months I lay there, fighting for life. It was the help and medical care from a fellow prisoner, though I don’t know who, that saved my life. Thankfully God restored my sight as well–the blindness I was inflicted with from the disease eventually went away.

Memories of these years will always stay with me. For some men however, the time spent in the camp will haunt them forever, becoming not only memories, but present in their everyday lives. I witnessed the worst case of human despair that I’ve ever seen on the faces of a group of British prisoners, forced to work in mines day in and day out. The short time I spent in these mines almost broke me, and these men were there for years. How does one resume his life after experiences such as these?

I suppose you almost have to move on–but not forget. I must remember the men I trained with, fought with and who died beside me. I am learning from the experience, using it to teach others, to make the world a better place. My years in the war are seared in my memory, never to be forgotten.

Drafted and alone
by Jaime McGrane
the Carillon

December 9, 1942
Drafted. I’ve said that word a thousand times but it still seems surreal somehow. Mother’s reaction was something else. I bet she’s still talking about it. Saying how Europe should be fighting its own wars, that Canada doesn’t need to send its boys over to fight.
For my part, I’m not sure it bothers me to go to war. It will be something new, something exciting. I even considered enlisted earlier, but I knew Mother would have had a fit. Now it’s out of my hands. My papers say I have to report to Regina on December 12, only three days away, now. At least I’ll be away from the look in my mother’s eyes.

December 12, 1942
Saying goodbye was perhaps the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. Seeing the tears in my mother’s eyes. Chucking John under the chin and telling him to take care of his older sisters, and shaking my father’s hand one last time. Then walking away to the depot to report for duty.
They took one look at me, gave me a great coat and uniform, four buckle overshoes and my Lee Enfield 303 field rifle. They then told me to go to barracks, get settled in and I’d be reporting for parade tomorrow at 7 a.m.

December 20, 1942
We boarded the train today. No one really knows where we’re going. But we still talk non-stop about it. Talking about what the camp will be like, if the training will be hard and if there will be pretty girls in the town. An air of excitement filled the train at the beginning of our journey three days ago. Now we’re simply tuckered out.

December 24, 1942
We arrived at Prince George, B.C. for basic training. Being in the barracks for Christmas isn’t the greatest. There will be a midnight mass celebrated. I know my family would be disappointed if I didn’t go to mass.
I opened my presents today. Mother had made sure I was sent Christmas presents because they didn’t know where I would be in December. She knitted me a wool sweater, John whittled me a horse and wool socks and a scarf from my little sisters. These small pieces from home filled me with sadness. It was then that I realized I missed them all, annoying though they were. I felt guilty for the excitement I had felt for the past weeks knowing my family had been working on gifts to send to me. I had nothing to give them but my love before I left and the promise not to volunteer for duty overseas. Now being drafted felt real, away from my family … stuck in the forests of B.C. learning how to shoot a gun.

The legacy of war
by Matt Barton
the Carillon

Victor Donald Barton, my grandfather, fought in the Second World War. He was a ball turret gunner in a bomber plane, protecting the underbelly from assault by enemy fighters. He was shot down over axis territory and held as a prisoner of war for over two years until the war ended.

The bravery he demonstrated during war was important, but not as important as the life he led after the war. When he returned home, he got married and started a family. Best of all, he was a prankster, possessing a wry sense of humour. A smile was always present at the corners of his mouth.

When I asked my grandmother if it was love at first sight, she smiled. “Oh, I knew right away that he was the one I was going to marry, but I don’t think he knew it quite yet.”

I remember him being kind and gentle. He never raised his voice and I never heard him swear in anger.

My most vivid memories of him are his little idiosyncrasies. He was always clean-shaven, hair clipped short and nails kept meticulously neat. Every time I went to visit grandpa he would sit me down at the table, pull out his pocketknife and proceed to cut my nails. After that, if needed, he would pull out his clippers and give me a haircut. One haircut resulted in me wearing a hat for a month. I remember his threat that squirmy kids lose ears during haircuts. I learned not to fidget quite quickly.
He never talked much about the war. I think he wanted to leave it in the past. He never made mention of his fallen friends or his experiences in Europe. If the topic ever came up he deftly changed the subject.

The only thing he would talk about from the war was the lack of food. Everyone was starving, even the guards. When the Red Cross dropped aid packages to relieve the prisoners, the guards would scoop up the food for themselves. The prisoners were left to rummage through the garbage and table scraps filled with maggots. This went on for years. After the war, if food was left on his plate after a meal, he would place the leftovers in a napkin and save it for later. He never wasted food.

The trials he endured during the war changed him forever. It is a testament to his character that he was able to bounce back from the horrors of war. His struggle and the struggle of those around him must be remembered. The sacrifices they made and the lessons they learned must not be in vain.

This Remembrance Day, wear a poppy and pay your respect to those who gave so much.